Calculated RiskTaker
by N.C. Stormeye
Summary: She lived in a world of calculated risk, yet even when the odds were beyond calculable, she stood beside him. A series of vignettes plumbing the depths of the Flame Alchemist's mind and his thoughts on his loyal lieutenant. Royai. Third-person Roy POV.
1. Children

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormSong**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**I don't know the exact age Roy came to study with Riza's father. So in this story it's Roy 14, Riza 12

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** Vignette 1: Children**

The dark-haired boy stretched out his hand to shake the hand of the fair-haired girl's. They were but children. He was fourteen, she was twelve. She led him to his bedroom, an undefined grace so aristocratic it was charming.

There were prettier girls back home. Girls his age with doe eyes and long lashes, and supple lips they already colored with rouge from their mothers' drawers. They would wave at him shyly, coyly, from across the street. He would wave back, and they'd blush. It was all part of his charm.

Yet the girl…twelve, young, grave, seemed so different it was enticing. Not in the way his hormones had defined the word…but in a way that made one want to discover the secrets locked up in those ruby-colored eyes. Still, he didn't mention anything about that. She was a tiny, twelve-year-old youngster to him, in his eyes a child. Though she deeply appeared not to be one.

It was a mystery to him how she had come to be the way she was…cold and reckoning. She shyed as far away from everyone as possible, and was nothing more than coldly obedient to her father, his master. Sure, it was not something that bothered him during his studies, but still. He never did like not knowing something, especially something that was, in his opinion, waved in front of his face day after day. Even the very way she walked, military-like and erect, confused him. At twelve, before _the tragedy_ that was his father's death, he was still carefree and immature. He still was, to a point. But there was a different playing field open to him now. The world of women beckoned.

So what was so…so enigmatic about this little girl?

He dwelt on those thoughts for awhile…then nodded off. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow. Tomorrow there would be studies and things to bother his mind with. He knew what he was aiming for…but he was still far behind with his goals.

Suddenly, he bolted awake. There she was, wearing a voluminous white nightgown that went to her ankles. She looked at him gravely, the sad child of twelve. Her dark eyes had such a perceptive quality to them…

"What's wrong?" he looked at her. In the summer heat he had vetoed a shirt. She didn't blush about that fact, but walked towards him, her fet barely making a sound on the floorboards. Slowly she sat down next to him and looked down at the floor. When she spoke, her voice was emotionless.

"_A year ago today, my mother died._"

He was struck by the words she spoke, her voice deadpan. If it was him, he'd find his voice trembling with emotion. They were never _that_ close, just the occasional tidbit of conversation across a dining table, under the stern eye of her father. But something that deep required something in return. Equivalent Exchange…an alchemic rule he thought unfair, but in this circumstance it was fitting.

"My father died too. It was summer, but it rained." He said simply. It waxed poetic in a strange way. She looked at him, and for a moment he saw her as a young adult, far advanced in years compared to him. Even if she was twelve and he was fourteen, the maturity gap went the other way.

"Ah." She said. Silence reigned for awhile. They spoke no words to each other throughout that night, but they ended up falling asleep, his head cushioned on her shoulder. Her frame leaning slightly into his.

And so began the complicated friendship between Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye**  
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**Nicole's Notes: **Okay, sure, not much RoyAi yet…but there will be in later chapters. Remember this is _as children_, so don't whine to me about this. Flames will be mocked and drenched in ammonia. 


	2. Pact

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormSong**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 22, Riza 19. This takes place during the Ishval war. A moment on the battlefield.

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**Vignette 2: Pact**

Her eyes, solemn as they were, in their ruby color, stared into space. The blood from the wound on her upper arm ebbed and flowed down satin skin as she carefully, meticulously took off her overshirt to turn into a wrap for him.

"You're bleeding" he said, his onyx eyes looking up into hers. Blood ebbed in delicate patterns down her arm, and a her fair hair, the color of sunflower petals, was slightly stained.

"You're bleeding as well. We are not in the position to state the obvious." She said calmly, coldly. It wasn't like the little girl he had known. She wasn't that girl anymore. She had turned into the visceral creature, as deadly as she was cold.

"Look, I'm not going to watch you bleed to death trying to help me." He replied in kind, his voice etched in steel. She blinked twice, then carefully, calculatedly, ripped a piece of fabric from his shirt.

He would have blushed at the brazen display. At least it would be brazen if they weren't fighting together. This was a lone wolf's war, them against some unspeakable evil they couldn't name or understand. They couldn't place it in the faces of those he killed…he couldn't place it. It was

She pushed herself up and cocked the safety of her gun back. It made a fine "click" that sounded so inhuman. The concentration on her face mirrored something primal. A wild woman with desparation and discontent. She made a well-placed shot…all clear.

"Thanks." He said numbly, not knowing that it would be one of the few moments he ever said such things.

"Don't mention it." She treated him like just another comrade. Where was the closeness, childlike but true, that had been there mere years ago. At their last parting they had hugged, as only two people who had gotten used to each other can. Then he left her behind, not knowing they would meet again, and in a hellhole such as this.

"You haven't changed a bit." She said coolly as she helped him to his feet. He looked at her, studying where time and harsh circumstances had sharpened and thinned. Her eyes were really Hawk's Eyes now, looking into the distance, watching. For what he couldn't understand but the knowledge she was around comforted him more that she knew. It would be one of the few moments she would talk to him so candidly, a mirror of the girl he once knew.

"You have." He replied, eliciting a glance.

"I know. I'm not the little girl anymore." She said, and for an instant he saw that little girl again. Opening up while still keeping secure behind the walls gradually built up. How many letters had he written to her those years apart…not many. They didn't keep in touch. Did she think he had betrayed her? No…she wasn't that petty. The last missive he had sent was to announce his passing of the State Alchemy Exam. She had replied that she herself had entered the military.

They met once again on the battlefield, at the climactic moment when he had shed the first innocent blood. The two doctors…they were brave souls, being unbiased in their treating of both sides. But to a heartless government, paranoid and racked with exhaustion, they were double agents. He killed them both in a blast of flame…so quick it seemed but a blink of an eye. She had seen him do it, and for a brief moment, horror flashed in her eyes.

He considered suicide after that incident, but she met him again just before he pulled the trigger on a gun he had barely used. She slapped it out of his hands and swore she would turn a gun on him herself if he even tried. She seemed to see him at his worst, showing a man demonic…and a man broken.

They couldn't trust each other with words any longer. No words could be exhanged as they ran out, shooting and burning and killing…murderers in a game where there could be no 'right thing'. How could you comfort someone who had killed without reason to? How could you say "it's okay" to someone who had spilled innocent blood? Everything was wrong and nauseating. Hell and death and pain and this long drawn-out military campaign.

Together, they were still children…young and confused. They exchanged looks…plaintive yet strong. It spoke a myriad of words. "Sorry." "Nice to see you again." "This is hell." Phrases they would never speak aloud for the fear of getting close. Of getting caught. Of getting caught being close. They could never be those two children again. It would never again be the same. And nothing could be changed.

Nothing could be improved. At least, not now.

It was in the heat of the Ishvallan afternoon that Roy Mustang promised he would reach the top, to make it somewhere where he would never have to do something so inhuman just to follow orders. To change things. And it was also where Riza Hawkeye swore she'd be right alongside him to back him up. And for a moment, they were those children again**  
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**Nicole's Notes:** This time there's a bit more RoyAi…but not enough for you fanatics I'm sure. Deal with it, it's the best I can do. 


	3. Tattoo

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormSong**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 22 , Riza 19 . This takes place during the war, and is my interpretation of the tatoo on Riza's back (the one that resembles an alchemic circle for flame I think? Forgive me, I've only read fanfics about it.). Many thanks to **words without** for her great review, and to _LILI_ for correcting the ages. :D I hope you enjoy this installment!

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**Vignette 3: Tatoo**

The Ishval War struggled on, and they barely spoke to each other. All they exchanged were grave looks, denying the very essence of the pact that bound them, as if willing it to be hidden. They knew the rules, they knew the pact's existence could threaten their respective reputations. It was a cross to bear until the time it could be put into motion.

But there were changes…for one, she never left his side. A few days, he heard that she had requested to be transferred to his platoon. They were now to literally fight side-by-side on that bloody, damned field. And she always seemed to watch his back. At first, it was a blow to his pirde. After all, she was a mere _girl_. To have her as a protector was a notch above embarassing at most. But after awhile, her constant presence was a comfort to him. Soon…he got used to her, and felt…naked without her by his side.

But the ultimate symbol of their pact was to come later, after grueling days spent on the field…

--000--

_It was nightfall on the Military's side of the camp. Silence reigned, and the sands blew lightly around in a desert melody that was ageless and beautiful._

_A fair-haired woman was seen creeping towards one of the tents, silent on her feet, her face wrapped in a scarf like the Ishvallan women. But she was definitely not Ishvallan, her uniform of blue was a testament to that. Her quiet manner made her look meek and defenseless, but the holster at her waist made her look decidedly not so._

_The silence was not breached…_

--000--

The whisper was barely audible, but he heard it. He knew what time of year it was…and who in particular was at his tent's entrance. His suspicions were confirmed when a golden-haired head of hair, tied neatly and clipped, peeked into the tent.

"My mother died a few years ago today."

"I know." He whispered softly, careful not to be heard. Sitting up, he made for some space for her to sit. She obliged, then looked at him, as if studying his features for those of the boy she had sought solace in so many years ago.

"You remember." She said after a long silence. Her voice still betrayed very little emotion, but her eyes spoke volumes. It was still hard, especially in times like these when she was responsible for the deaths of other people's mothers.

"Of course." He said calmly, then sighed.

"You're depressed."

"That's pretty hard not to notice." He said, clipped. She didn't seem offended by the snide tone. Instead, she, in that strange way of hers, said the right words.

"I'm not saying I don't think what you did was horrible, but it was orders. I don't hold the crime against you."

He looked at her, she had taken off her jacket and was easing off her shirt. _What is she…does she?_ She turned her back to him, revealing an array that resembled his own in so many ways.

"My father…he put these there to preserve his life's work. They hurt when they were put on…very much so. He painted them first in red ink then bound them to my skin…a rather complex alchemic procedure…and risky. These were put on the same way he told you chimeras were formed. You remember the pattern I assume."

"Yes…" he started to reminise. How many times had he drawn the array on paper, with her looking over his shoulder, the self-same patterns on her back. He reached out to touch it, tracing it with his finger. He had passed the alchemy exam with that array, slightly modified to fit his taste. She shuddered, shivered at his touch.

"Your hand is warm." She said calmly. He smiled a bit, then looked.

"Why are you showing them to me?" he asked her after awhile.

"Because," She handed him a knife, "it's time for you to change them."

He looked at her in disbelief. She swung her head to face him from the side. Her eyes showed she was serious.

"I'll walk you through what he did. I may not be an alchemist, but I did some intense study."

"I suppose you did." He said with disbelief, slowly putting the knife to his arm. He slashed, and winced, the blood flow became sure. Dipping his finger in the blood, he slowly made the revisions. The redness was a contrast against the ivory of her skin…an eerie thing. He put his hand to her back, and listened...

With Riza coaching, Roy Mustang bound a part of himself to her flesh. And in the Ishvallan night, a pact was sealed in blood and skin**.  
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**Nicole's Notes: **Okay, I added some independent touches and flourishes. But still, makes for a good read right? 


	4. Calm

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormEye**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 29, Riza 26. This takes place in the series, and it's an ordinary day before all the mess that happens in the end of the series. Many thanks to my beta **_words without_ **who introduced me to FMA Scanlations, and to my other reviewers for keeping me on this crazy ride of a fic. You all rock my socks off guys! Love ya!

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**Vignette 4: Daydream**

"Here are some more papers for you to sign," she said in a clipped tone. It had been six years since the Ishvallan war had ended. The two were originally at a loss on how to stay together. She didn't want to stay in the Military, but he did. There was a stormy time for awhile. Yet fate had led them here, and, nine years later, there they were.

He lounged in his chair, yawning. "Oh, goody," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The clock ticked steadily on...how many more minutes till the workday was over? He had a date that night, the girl was pert, pretty, sweet...nothing like the woman who faced him with icy determination, cocking back the safety of her gun threateningly. The inhuman 'click' that he had once noticed on the battlefield got him moving. Not out of fear, but out of force of habit.

The sun filtered through the windows, making some dappled light fall on the head of his desk. Everyone was quietly working or talking, under the supervision of the watchful eye of the woman he once knew as a child...a child that was no more.

He looked at her...studying her as he mimed signing and reading through papers. She wasn't reckless, he knew well she did not haphazardly fire the gun she held in her steely yet delicate grip. She was tough as a taskmaster, but she was also fair. He thought back to the moments when, watching him look severely fatigued, she had helped usher him home. It was raining that night...his weakness. She had seen him to his door and even helped cook. These were stolen moments of friendly intimacy under the noses of protocol and ethics.

She caught him staring. "Yes, Sir?" Sir...when had his name become so alien to her that it was rarely spoken? His last name, yes. His title, often. Sir was her favorite...but it wasn't his. He sometimes wondered how he would get her to say his name again. With a kiss...no...that was unethical. She wasn't like the women he plied with flowers and chocolates and sly, playboy grins. She was...well...she was resistant to all his charms, so much so it was both terrifying and endearing. She was loyal, she was true. She would tell him the truth to his face and had seen the best and worst of him.

And that was why he could trust her with his life. Not that it mattered...she had willingly taken the burden of standing by him, his life her responsibility. He hadn't asked her to...but as sure as there was a tattoo of his blood on her flesh, it didn't matter. She was bound to him in permanent scars and shared secrets and terrifying nightmares. Images of the people he burnt and killed were in his dreams every night. Yet her very presence, even in the arms of Morpheus, was enough to put the demons of his past to rest.

He often saw her in his dreams as the little girl he knew again. And miraculously, he was still the little boy who had come as a student. He could hear their laughter and innocence, and silently, he wished for those times again. His dreams, and musings, were always filled with those lofty aspirations. He knew they were impossible...yet it was never harmful to dream.

He was lost in one of those dreams for a moment, until..."BANG!" a bullet buried itself in a wall behind him.

Jolting awake, he stared at her for a moment. She scowled back at him. "Paperwork..."

He pouted. "Can I at least have a break?" The answer to this was the threatening cocking back of her gun. Sighing, he went back to work, but not without looking at the woman and thinking about how much had changed...and how much hadn't.

In the laziness of mid-day in East City, Roy Mustang signed paperwork and mused. And Riza Hawkeye watched him as she always did, smiling secretly, as she always had.

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**Nicole's Notes**: Okay, I added some independent touches and flourishes. But still, makes for a good read right? 


	5. Tears

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormEye**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 29, Riza 26. This takes place in the series, a few hours after the announcement that Hughes is dead, pre-Central transfer of course. Many thanks to my beta **_words without_**who beta-d the chapter "Daydream", and to my other reviewers for keeping me on this crazy ride of a fic. You all rock my socks off guys! Love ya!

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**Vignette 5: Tears**

"Hughes. Is. Dead."

The words hit like a stone--no, more like a boulder. They were crushing in their hopelessness. How could someone, anyone do this? To Maes Hughes, possibly one of the best men in the military? No...this couldn't be true.

_This can't be true_. He thought to himself for the nth time that night. Nightmares would plague him if he slept, so he stood, awake and surprisingly sober, to stare at the moon and curse the god who made it and the cruel person who had murdered his best friend. He was staying late at the office, accounting for his sober state. One shot of vodka and he had thrown the bottle against the wall in rage. Too late he realized that it was practically full...no alcohol to numb the pain now.

The bottle still lay broken on the floorboards. The glass winked in the moonlight, a beautiful and violent picture. But he didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the moon and trying not to cry. He hadn't cried in years, not since he killed the Rockbells. So his tears had not fallen for awhile...even though on many occasions he was sad. Of course, sadness was a normal human emotion. But to him, crying wasn't part of the package. He was a terribly passionate man, but this was one emotion he had yet to deal with.

Standing with his forehead to the plate glass window, he was a picture of melancholy. It was a cold, harsh universe...melancholy suited him. In a bar this look would have captured dozens of young ladies. Alone, this look reflected immediate sorrow. Sadness was a terrifying, heartless thing with no mercy for the roguish, the rakish, the dashing, or the proud. Sadness affected everyone.

Death affected everyone.

He had seen so much death. The war was firmly implanted in his mind. Images of men, women, children...all innocents, all dead. Their faces beckoned in his dreams. He was no hero, no matter what the countless women who had let themselves into his life told him. And one of the two people who understood that fact was gone. Maes was gone, and with him, some sort of life was gone. Some sort of light had been put out as carelessly as one of his flames in the rain.

He was wallowing in sorrow and he knew it. Damn, he needed a drink. But the vodka bottle was still broken, still lying on the floor. And his life was still in utter chaos, no better than before. No truth to life. Nothing. Death was the only option but _someone_ had put a stop to any of those attempts. His gun, what he was about to use to shoot himself the day he murdered (not heroically killed, cold-bloodedly _murdered_) the Rockbells, was lying disassembled and locked away. For a man as passionate as he was prone to decisions he could regret.

And _she_ knew that. But she wasn't here. He thought that sullenly to himself as he continued studying the moon in the silence. _Maes, if you can hear me, why the hell did you have to die! _He let out the silent plea, staring at the sky. For all the angst and cynicism, he still believed in heaven. And Hughes was definitely in it.

His musing made him smile. He imagined Hughes floating around in a white dress, with a harp, a halo, sandals, and tiny wings, annoying "god" (_Note the small letter g. How can any _real _god be so cruel...) _with pictures of little Elysia. Somehow the hilarious image was fitting, and he smiled a bit wider...before remembering that his best friend was gone. That made his heart sink.

In his silent reverie he did not notice, or perhaps he ignored, the fact that the door was opening and that footsteps were inching their way across the floorboards. His forehead still pressed to the cool glass, he jumped when a voice woke him out of his "trance-like" state.

"_Are you okay sir?"_

The words had so much meaning and concern that he almost lost his composure. He turned to face her with a heroic-looking smile on his face. Tears were imperceptibly pooling in his eyes but he sucked in his gut and spoke up. "Yes." The questioning intone gave him away. He wasn't all right. He wasn't okay. He was far from okay. If he knew where it was he would be reassembling his gun right now, to cock to his head and pull the trigger.

"You're not." Her voice was cool, but it had an undertone of sadness. Their eyes met...they had an understanding. A tear slipped down her cheek, and his gloved hand swiped it away. The moment was full of so much hidden meaning, so many words they could not saybecause propriety and protocol limited them. He turned to face the window again, swallowing the lump in his throat and letting his voice hit deadpan.

"He's gone."

"I know, Sir." The words were pronounced softly, sadly, so unlike the coldness, the deadpan tone she'd had for all the years he'd known her. In that instance, he broke. His face was a mask of stoicism but his tears, glittering in the moonlight, betrayed his real feelings. He was, after all, a passionate man.

In the starlit silence of in East City, Roy Mustang let silent tears drip from a stony face. And Riza Hawkeye stood behind him, secretly, softly, crying as well.

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**Nicole's Notes**I know, I know, more cinematic license. It's weird...again. But I like this one. And note the references to hating God in this chapter. No I don't really, that was actually what I perceived to be Roy's feelings. I personally love God (yes, big G) and am not that cynical. So please don't hit me fellow Jesus Freaks:D

And yes, I like the term "Jesus Freak". Sounds urban-alterna-cool. :D

Ah, enough of my bloody blather. See you next chappy!!


	6. Rush

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormEye**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:**_A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 29, Riza 26. This takes place in the series, obviously during that little Scar-Lior problem...maybe after the meeting with Pride...er...the Fuhrer. Whatever. Many thanks to my beta **_words without_ **who beta-d the chapter "Tears"...and still has to deal with my horrible "tenses" problem. I have no idea how the problem came to be, so I can't actually stop it.

Sorry **_words without_! **

Oh yeah, and a shout out to my rapidly diminishing reviewers. I love you loyal peeps! Stay loyal. There's a Royai icon in it for those who do! (Ah bribery.**  
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**Vignette 6: Rush**

Another war. The tanks were rolling in. Supplies to create those "temporary" military shelters were being stacked and inventories. Why did they call them temporary when in truth and in fact they were permanent...cold reminders of another conquest. An outpost in a soon-to-be-barren land.

Soon-to-be-barren...unless he got his way.

He was silent as he sat, staring at his gloved palms. The silence was...as cliché as it sounded...deafening. Like a loud roaring of blood rushing to a brain, fueling the complex electrical impulses between neurons. Negatively charged ions...connections...thoughts...plans. All those complex bodily functions to create such a simple yet infinitely powerful creation...a thought.

Thoughts were powerful. They could be anything from wise, to idiotic, to avant garde. And most of all...they could be insubordinate, rebellious. Those were the thoughts that danced in his mind. How a leader could stand and watch his...his flock of sometimes-unwilling, forcedly-loyal sheep dying for a cause none of them could understand.

None of them, except him. And maybe, just maybe..._her. _Somewhere in those dull red eyes-dull…after the war, they had never returned to their luster, and he was responsible for that-was the full knowledge of what was going on. What he might have to do.

And even with that knowledge, she would still be there. That was comforting.

He stood up to stand next to the window, staring at the city that spread out before him like a lady's fan. Night had descended. People were asleep. In this unfamiliar city where he had yet to dream, people had been dreaming all their lives.

...Poetic, don't you think?

Thinking, thoughts...all those ideas of rebellion and rogue missions were squelched violently down in his mind. He banged his head against the window—from the many times he had done so it was a wonder the window wasn't dented or worse yet...broken. How would he explain the shards of glass he would have in his hair for weeks on end?

Bar-fight, probably.

His thoughts were becoming more random by the minute. Cautiously he tapped his head on the glass again. It made a dull "ping" noise and he felt a slight ache in that side of his forehead...but the glass held.

He stopped staring out the window and decided to stare at it. He could still hear the deafening silence, that sea-wave rush of blood in his ears. The glass was flawed...air bubbles in certain areas and a slight wobble in one of the panes. He smiled, a cold, bitter smile, remembering his musings on why the sunlight held a ripple pattern when it landed on his desk.

One of those innocent, quiet moments that made things seem as if they had never changed. But of course they had.

War...how could it be avoided? How could it be averted? Were all his arguments in vain? His feigned respect for someone who he knew was not who he showed himself to be? He thought of himself as a pretty convincing actor, his tone turning to silk, then ice, in one breath.

...Randomness again. He couldn't think over the noise of the blood...blood rushing through his veins as it had once rushed through the veins of those he had killed. The thoughts were true, but unwanted in this instance. From there things would lead to self-loathing, then thoughts of death and suicide, then heavy drinking to numb the pain. He needed his mental faculties in perfect order for this.

Silently he sat back down, resumed his staring at his hands. They hadn't changed in the, he stared at the clock, past five minutes. Was that all? Five minutes? To him it had seemed like hours. It was only seven and he thought it was midnight. That was how thrown-off he felt.

_The rush again..._

He kept trying to think, begging some unknown deity or spirit that his ideas made sense and that the disaster could be averted. Lior couldn't be another Ishval...it just couldn't be. He had seen the devastation. And even a soldier's heart could break with that premise. The ruins of a once populated city.

He couldn't even bring himself to remember how they looked.

She had Ishvallan eyes...he knew that. They were red, the color of rubies and, if the reports he kept thumbing through haughtily were true, the color of the Stone. The stone that held so much hope and promise for many, yet led only to death and destruction, the diminishing of a soul. The sacrifice of an entire race reduced to a few refugees hiding out in far-flung places. She had those haunting eyes...but they held depth and understanding, not loathing and fear. He liked to think they were the color of something more.

He was thinking of her at a time like this...a distraction. Wasn't this what the military prevented with the law he sought to abolish someday...for reasons he couldn't understand? He could see the sense in those laws now. A soldier is not allowed to feel...only allowed to perform.

And that was what he was doing, performing. Trying harder than hard to function beyond the regret. How, _how_ could he stop the madness that was about to begin? Was it even possible? The tanks, as he had noted before, were about to roll in. The supplies were packed. This was going to be another Ishval...somewhere in his chest, in the hollow he could call a heart, he could feel it.

It would take a miracle.

Silently he sat...staring at his hands again. Lost in his thoughts he did not notice the door open, the sound of her boots on the floor. He stared at the hands that had caused destruction, before finding his thoughts interrupted by the soft, cool clearing of a throat.

"_Sir."_

He looked up, gazing into the eyes he had mused were the color of the stone he knew the citizens of Lior would try to take refuge in. Those dark eyes, the color of blood—eyes that would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. "Y...yes?" he replied, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.

She noticed, in that silent, infinitely penetrating way of hers. Fear and trembling were rare with him...only seen once before. In that horrible place they had left behind and spoke of only in muted tones, filled with pain and regret. Fear and trembling called up memories of that place, like his nightmares. "Sir, we'll be marching in early, you'd better get some rest."

He'd failed. His plan had failed. Slowly he stood to face her, heroically...like he would have once taken it. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, pride and ego writhing in agony at the words.

"You did what you could, Sir."

In the silence of a Central night Roy Mustang apologized for his shortcomings. And Riza Hawkeye forgave him, because she was the only one left who could**.  
**

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**Nicole's Notes**After purging my system (file system that is) of all the junk, I have FINALLY been able to clear some space! WOOO! YESH! (cheers in wild manner) I hope you like this installment of the "Calculated Risk-Taker" series. :D Enjoy! Flames will be mocked and put out with giant red fire extinguishers.

And I still suck at Algebra...sigh.


	7. Traitor

_**Calculated Risk-Taker**_

_**By Nicole StormEye**_

**_DISCLAIMER: _**I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

_**Summary:** _A series of short RoyAi vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. All are musings about Riza. All are Roy POV written from third person.

**_A/N: _**Roy 29, Riza 26. This takes place in the series, in the climactic (for all Royai fans) episode when Roy kills the Fuhrer...well, okay, time to refer to him as Pride. This is, of course, anime timeline. I will be switching to manga timeline for my story "Ambition"...an alternate version of one of the vignettes to come.

Sorry _**words without**, _my long-suffering beta who has heard only silence from me for the past few...months? I want a round of applause for her peeps! This is the person who has to deal with my tenses problem!

And sorry too to all my rapidly diminishing reviewers. I love you loyal peeps! Stay loyal. I'm very sorry I didn't post a holiday edition fic...but I was busy all the CRAPPY HOLIDAYS. So please stay loyal! There's a long-overdue Royai icon in it for those who do! I'm almost done with it I swear! (Ah bribery.)

This chapter is in the style of "Tattoo" for its haunting quality. I'm trying to channel that voice because I think it will be best.

**

* * *

Vignette 7: Traitor**

_Could you risk everything...everything that we've worked for just to chase after what can be considered speculation?_

He asked her this silently with his eyes as he made his quick, cold statement: "I'm going after the Fuhrer." They had known for several days about FullMetal's nauseating discovery, that the ruler of their nation was nothing more than a vile science experiment, albeit one with a mind of its own. A mind which had caused innocent people to perish all for the want of something forbidden.

_Desperate people tend to seek refuge in the stone..._he had rehearsed those lines to himself as he sat in thought. His brigade...his _friends_ were creating a distraction near North on the battle lines. Havoc would masquerade as him until they got word that the strange suicide mission had been a success. They would follow him blindly, without error. They trusted him.

But he did not trust himself.

Years before he had stood on a battlefield. It wasn't that long ago...the sand whipping around his legs as he sat in a dingy tent, blanket covering his face. Hughes urging him to get up, bearing the storm of his cynical comments. Hughes…who was gone...probably because of the...the _creature_ who occupied the post he aspired for.

Those aspirations meant nothing now.

They meant nothing as he stood in Havoc's hospital room...what used to be Havoc's room, anyway. Now it was his. The convincing wig looked almost real, copying the spikes and unruliness of the devil-may-care officer's hair. He didn't notice much, not even how the wig itched. He was sitting on the bed, staring at his hands, wondering what the hell he was about to do.

And why wasn't she here yet? He felt...naked without her. It had all started during the Ishvallan war, when they made their pact and she had first decided to stand by his side. They pretended they were children then...how far had they aged now? How far had she aged? He never noticed. In fact, her presence was so commonplace that sometimes he forgot she was there. Only the sharp 'click' of a safety reminded him.

The sharp 'click' that he heard now.

---000---

He turned...a gun was aimed at his head. He stared at the barrel of cold steel and winced slightly. Her voice was hollow...monotonous. Her eyes burned uninterrupted by the swath of golden locks she hid under a brown paperboy hat.

"You once told me to turn this on you if you ever gave up on your dream."

He sighed...he had given up on it, hadn't he? The very nature of what he would do soon would pretty much send his dreams into oblivion. After he was tried on treason, there would be nothing left. Maybe death if he was lucky...but luck was seldom on his side. It would probably be a lifetime of disgrace and...wait, wouldn't she go down with him as an accessory to the crime? _Wouldn't she?_

Maybe that's why she would turn the gun on him now, to stop him from risking both their lives. After all, she lived in a world of calculated risk…and the odds of this mission were beyond calculable. But still...she wasn't so selfish as to put her own safety above his life. In fact, how many times had he been put above hers? No...that couldn't be the reason. Could it? Could she be turning traitor just as he would be?

"...But sometimes we must sacrifice our dreams for the common good." She returned her gun to her holster and saluted him, "Sir." There was an awful sense of finality to the formal address...as if it would be the last time she would call him that. He brushed the feeling off, not speaking a word. He couldn't say anything to her. The risks were too great and they were far beyond comforting each other with 'Everything will be fine.' This was most likely a suicide mission. They would most likely not return from it alive.

They were far beyond hope now.

"You could still back out..." His voice was a mumble. His reply was a quick click of a safety and a gun aimed at his head. Her voice was quiet, but firm.

"Don't you dare suggest that."

He looked at her red eyes...they stared with all-consuming fire. Funny, he thought he was the only one who could produce that, but apparently a spark hid behind her eyes. Ironic, it was her father who first taught him to wield the deadly weapon he manipulated with pinpoint accuracy. He thought back to the carefree days when his reputation as a living flamethrower was exceeded only by his track record with the women. Women loved to play with fire...to try and tame it.

No one ever succeeded, except her. Now he would let its full power run free to complete a mission that seemed crazy as hell. And she would stand by as he did.

---000---

_The Fuhrer's mansion was ominously dark...night was seeping in quickly. The sounds of gunfire had distracted the forces guarding it, allowing him a clean entrance through. He scaled the gate and jumped...landing on his feet even though a sharp pain oozed through him. He itched to snap his fingers and let out a spark...but she was risking her life at the steps of the manor, creating a diversion so carefully plotted._

_He was quiet as he crept in through a back entrance illuminated by the blueprints he had been able to acquire under the guise of a still-loyal military lackey. He'd become a mad dog...a traitor. And so was she._

_He watched her as she made the tentative steps up the porch stairs and rang the doorbell. When she walked in…he made a break for it. _

_She'd follow him to the end..._

In the gunfire laden sounds of the most chaotic Central City night of his life, Roy Mustang looked up at the stars and let out the first prayer he'd made in years...a prayer that Riza Hawkeye would be safe.

**

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Nicole's Notes: I should be doing Chinese homework because we have a short seatwork tomorrow...but I don't really care. I need a break, partly from discovering that out of 200 people, only 3 voted for me as P.R.O. The ambitious do not always get their dreams rewarded.**

Also…I should be wallowing in self-loathing because my Biology teacher is going to give me hell tomorrow for being disrespectful. Or, in military terminology, insubordinate. Sometimes I think my mouth is way too much for my safety…stupid, STUPID me.

Oh well...I think of this as compensation...even though it's not much.


	8. Valentine

**_Calculated Risk-Taker  
By N.C. Stormeye_**

**DISCLAIMER: **What I own or do not own outside of Fullmetal Alchemist is none of your concern. All you need to know that Fullmetal Alchemist does not belong to me.

**Author's Notes: **I've disappeared off the face of the fanfiction earth long enough. It appears I am missed…sort of. So I am returning to my roots and continuing the long-left-unfinished saga of Calculated Risk-Taker. This time I am forgoing my long-suffering beta…who must be tired. I'm out to see what I have learned on my own.

As always, this chapter is dedicated to my beta, **_words without_. **But along with that come more dedications to my new-found friends in the Royai thread. To **Tombow**, **CodenameElizabeth**, **Edamame**, **The New Fullmetal Alchemist**, **Starrie**, **Riza Hawkeye 9**, and everyone else who sent their warm wishes during my silence. Thanks very much, I'm writing again.

Roy 31, Riza 28 – Post-anime Timeline. Pre-movie or Mid-movie. Roy in the North, Riza at Home. A very late Valentine's day tribute

**Vignette 8: Valentine**

_(Dedicated to the people in the Royai thread. A very late Valentines Day.)_

Up North, where he was, it was always cold. The lonely outpost was the last vestige of control the military had. He'd been sent here, no, had chosen to go here to while away his lonely existence amongst the frost and blizzards…as if to atone for his sins. The office was small, not like the one he'd once had back in Central and in East. It wasn't that long ago, but it barely seemed real to him now.

He wasn't that man anymore. With one eye gone along with all his dreams…was this alchemy? Did he have to give up his eye and his hopes for the safety of the people he once dreamt of ruling? Was this a repercussion of giving up one promise for another?

He thought of that question over and over while he was here. Contrary to popular belief, the North was peaceful…relatively. It was a cold, desolate, lonely place. Even in their excuse for summer it was still cold, sun shining weakly through a perpetual blanket of frost across the sky. It gave him time to think…not that he hadn't done that often among the bustling metropolis that was Central and the lazy backwater ghost-town that was East. It was less paperwork. Heck, it wasn't even military work. He was an enlisted man, a lonely, broken shell of a human being.

His "office"…a courtesy title for a decrepit shack, also doubled as his home. It was pathetic against the elements. It had a fireplace, and, conveniently, matches, though sometimes they were ineffective because they were wet with frost. Still, he refused to use alchemy…he felt too much guilt at his 'past life' that he'd renounced it. The post was draining him of energy, reinforcing that he was a broken man.

He vaguely missed his old post, his old position…So far away now it felt like home to him. Home wasn't this crummy outpost in the middle of Nowhere. Home was where he'd spent most of his brilliant yet short-lived career.

It's amazing how much you can grow up when something tragic happens.

He had taken to reading what books he had brought with him. He'd learned to master the use of only one eye. It was a necessary evil. Reading trained it to a fine point. Philosophy and fiction…no alchemic textbooks as he'd refused to have reminders of a life he'd left behind with him. Most of the time he read to amuse himself and practice his impaired line of vision. He lost all track of time during these moments…they extended to the end of the day and he'd fall asleep in the rickety chair that was afforded him.

He'd awake, groggy, the next morning, shocked to find a night had been whiled away in lonely silence. Sometimes he'd forget himself and expect to hear a 'click' of a safety. He'd fallen asleep on the job again. She'd threaten him. He'd wake up…only faint sunlight coming through a lone window in a decrepit shed in the North.

Days, weeks, months…they meant nothing here. The sun was the marker of time. There was no military punctuality necessary. Time was reduced to an imperceptible nod. He kept a calendar anyway…out of old habit. Sometimes throw the torn pages into the fireplace, as if for old times' sake. Sometimes he'd wryly pretend they were the documents he so often burnt away. He'd pretend they were Fullmetal's carefully prepared reports that weren't prepared carefully enough to satisfy him.

Reminders of the days past…perhaps he was going mad.

At one point, when ripping off the date of the morning to cast casually into the fireplace, he'd discovered that it was Valentine's Day. An odd surge of urgency and giddy glee ran through him, only to be stamped out by a reminder of where he was.

He'd gone through the motions of "work" when he remembered once again. It was Valentine's Day. He got out a piece of paper. _Should I_…he thought. It was that day he missed _her_.

_Should I…_he asked the question once again. Out of what little impulsiveness he had left, he put the pen to paper and scrawled _Dear Hawkeye. _However, when he read the words over, he hastily threw the paper – and the idea of writing - aside. What a thought!

Gruffly, he stood to stomp - warm himself through movement. It was Valentine's Day. Back in his old life there would be flowers bedecking his table and an irate Havoc reading the names of past girlfriends on each card. There was always a token on Havoc's desk…something of a bookish nature**(1)**. Always with "Your Secret Admirer" signed coyly in shy script. He wondered briefly if Havoc ever found out who sent the parcels.

Also, he remembered the state of her desk...not rife with parcels like his but there were some. Most were from female friends. Some were from men running the gauntlet of fate. One year he had gotten her a gun**(2)**…and she had threatened to shoot him with it soon after. She liked it though.

He saw Valentine's Day as an excuse to splurge on her. He owed her more than what coins and bills he spent. Her birthday too, was an excuse. He knew to only do it every so often or she'd refuse him. That gun he gave her on Valentine's Day…it was the one in her hands that night when he had ended the dream. It was the gun she'd used to defend him…the gun she'd aimed at his head because he'd suggested she go save herself.

The snow fell and he remembered…remembered her and his excuses to lavish attention on his loyal subordinate. It wasn't suspicious. He never gave her cliché gifts that had romantic undertones. Always something practical, like she was. Never the sweet things he slipped to his many admirers as he hit the town during the night.

Now, alone in the North, he found he wished he hadn't taken those days for granted. Hadn't seen them as excuses. Grudgingly, sadly, he admitted he missed her. But for all he knew it was too late. He threw the day's date into the fire and slowly watched it burn.

Staring at the charred remains of February 14, Roy Mustang mused regretfully on Riza Hawkeye, not thinking that miles away, she was thinking of him too**...**

**Notes:**

**(1) **Reference to Havoc/Scieska (spelling off, again.)  
**(2)** Reference to favorite Royai Valentine's fic, **Guns n Roses** by **_MultipleCyrosis_**

Stupid excuse for a V-day tribute, I know. Pathetic, I know.

**_N.C. Stormeye_**


	9. Returning

**_Calculated Risk-Taker_  
By N.C. Stormeye**

**DISCLAIMER:**I do not own the Full Metal Alchemist movie Full Metal Alchemist: The Conqueror of Shamballa.

**_Summary:_**A series of "short" Royai vignettes, each detailing a moment together in their…_timeline_. A vast majority touch lightly on Riza. All but one are from Roy's POV written from third person.

**A/N:**Roy is 31, Riza 28. Takes place before one of the best scenes in the movie. This will be, I think, the last vignette that takes place within the canon FMA timeline. The last few chapters will be deeply rooted in the canon…but will no longer be within the _anime _series. Please be reminded that I don't really know the _manga _timeline…though if anyone can update me on Roy and Riza's movements in it, it will be much appreciated.

It's pretty obvious now, isn't it? I'm back. After updating my other project – **_Snow White and The Eight Dwarves _– **I decided that since Royai day is approaching, another sporadic update is in order. It's been a year, has it not?

Time to take charge again. I miss this fic, just as I've missed being in the Royai groove. So I've gone back to the forums and now I'm returning here. Some of my best writing is in here. It's been quite a training ground!

* * *

**Vignette 9: Returning**

_The smoke and gunfire seemed like home to him._

It was strange, how the things he used to have nightmares about were now the things that comforted him most. His stride – when he was not ducking away from enemy fire – was steady, sure, commanding…no matter that the power that taught him that air had been long stripped from him. The air seemed to settle back on him naturally, replacing the aura of the broken, shamed man he had become up North.

In the heat of battle, his here-and-now (for he'd learned that in this situation the most important things were in the here-and-now) goals pasted firmly in his mind, the North seemed far away. The heat of Central seemed to slough off the months spent nursing lonely drinks in the cold.

Many had caught wind of his presence, but none reacted. They were too busy trying to fight the powerful entity that had unleashed the current terror they were facing. No one understood where it was from, but he had an inkling. The catalyst had been FullMetal's return, and the not-as-diminutive (he'd had enough humor left in him to note) alchemist had briefed him on just _what _the enemy was and just _how _to defeat it.

_Destroy the gate_. That was the main goal. He knew what it entailed…he had a distinct feeling that this battlefield would be the last place he'd see the alchemic prodigy he'd taunted and tormented yet silently held a sort of protective instinct for. But that didn't matter now – he brushed the melancholy that thought brought on – he had to find his troops. He had to find his…_friends_. The ones he had abandoned, partly to wallow in his shame _alone _and partly to spare them the humiliation of being tied to him…he was certain, then, that his continued presence would have caused a harsher sentence. He elected to enlist and run, telling himself that he would be saving them in a last-ditch effort to make up for the failure of his dream.

He could not bring them down with him, it was _his _pain to bear. The masochist in him seemed to push that, even as alone, in his ramshackle "office," he craved the support he had once gotten. They had all been his backers, motivations to reach the lofty aspirations he'd once thought were possible. Yet now, when all hope of those aspirations seemed lost, he still needed them, needed to make it up to them.

Needed to make it up to _her_.

Who had invested the most in the dreams he'd held? She had. Who had put the most on the line to destroy the dream for the greater good? She had. And he had left her without answers, without words, without saying everything that should have been said.

It was beyond cowardice. It was treason…more treasonous than killing the Fuhrer. It was a betrayal of the one person who had been the most loyal to him. It was _disgusting_!

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind – self-pity and self-loathing would not help him now. Not when he had something to accomplish. He could worry about how to say everything he left unsaid later. For now all he needed was to _find _them, damn what he would do when he did.

Damn what he would do when he saw _her _again.

He picked up his stride – not running, but certainly not walking and ducking robotically like an automaton through the lines of fire. He was lucky – his blue uniform seemed a beacon that his immediate vicinity was a 'no-shooting zone.' No one had thrown a derisive comment his way yet, and he was vaguely comforted by that, although he had a sneaking suspicion that in the haze of battle no one recognized him, despite his infamy.

That would have once been a blow to his ego, but his ego was the farthest thing from his mind now. All he worried about were his former subordinates who were out there on their own. Well, not _completely _on their own. Armstrong, despite his capacity to…_display _himself, was a cool head in the heat of battle. And speaking of 'cool heads'…_she _would be there. She could hold her own with them.

She didn't really need him, but he was coming anyway. His rationale was that, at the very least, they'd all need him for what he _knew. Who knows, maybe FullMetal hasn't reached them._

Finally, he reached a row of thick barriers, thicker that most around him. That clued him in to exactly _who _was there. He looked up – the green banner bearing the same symbol as the one on the pocketwatch he once carried flew defiantly even as gunfire ripped it to shreds. A bullet punctured an armor-clad…_creature _to one side of him, letting it topple, bleeding, to the ground. The creatures reminded him vaguely of Alphonse, and he allowed himself an inward laugh. _Hardly the thought I should be thinking about the enemy_.

That was the moment when he heard _their_ voices.

At the sound of them he stopped his instinct to run into the line of fire – that would be stupid. Instead, he waited until the way was clear enough so that he would _hopefully _not be shot at. In the back of his mind, a long-silent, cocky voice commented that it would be a 'dramatic' entrance.

He stepped confidently, face pulled into a determined scowl. Everyone froze as he advanced. As if determined to intentionally interrupt his return, the iron-clad _monsters _– for he could only call them monsters – loomed to his side. Impatiently, he raised his arm in one fluid gesture and _snapped_…sending flames in their direction and blowing them up. Afterwards, he turned towards his old battalion, expecting scowls matching his own to cross their faces but, to his surprise, when they saw him, a look of hope seemed to enter their tired eyes.

He thought he was seeing things, until a jubilant outburst from Havoc confirmed he _wasn't_. "Welcome to the party, General!"

He was relieved, but there would be time to capitalize on that _hope _later. Addressing them in a tone he had not used in a long time – yet seemed to come back naturally – he barked out orders, a part of him slightly miffed that his officers took a bit longer than the usual _immediately _to follow them. After he'd glared at _his _men – they seemed to be _his men _again – enough to get them going, he conferred with Armstrong.

"To be able to fight those…_planes…_" The words seemed foreign to him, but the wry smile that crossed his face was not.

"We need a way to fly as well. I'll get to that." Armstrong replied with a salute and a curt nod before going off to craft the solution. There was nothing left for him to do. He turned around.

_She _was standing there, posed in a salute, her frame as ramrod-straight as usual…but she was smiling, her eyes ablaze with the hope he hadn't seen in months. "It's good to have you back, _sir_."

Those words said everything he needed to hear.

Amid the chaos of the battle that would decide the fate of the Alchemic world, Roy Mustang felt nothing but relief that _his _lieutenant was not mad at him, had welcomed him back by instinctively saying the one thing he'd needed said. And Riza Hawkeye was anything _but_ upset. There would be time for that later… there _would _be a later because _her _Colonel was _back_.

* * *

**NC's Notes: ** Sorry if the words in the Armstrong-Roy dialogue, and the Riza line are not the same as those in the movie. As soon as I get the exact words, you _know _I am going to edit this thing and post them.

Oh yeah, fave movie quotes…

**Mustang**: Way to bring your trouble home with you, Fullmetal! Really nice...  
**Ed**: Huh, Smart remarks already? Nice patch, by the way; though it should've covered your mouth, too.

So much for distracting you from eating me alive about this chapter.

I think this may be the worst chapter yet because I seem to have lost touch with the Flame Alchemist's mind. Probably because I haven't been updating – bad, _bad _Nicki – so the plot has all gone to hell. I figure my only redemption is that Roy was considerably more _emo _after he came back from the North. I mean, _come on_, who doesn't remember the 'lighting-a-match' sequence?

I've given Riza a bigger part in the last paragraph than I usually do because that cheesy sentence was begging to write itself. Humor me, okay? Be nice…I have to get back into the groove. I'm getting there, I swear!!

Read and review. Give all the flames to Mustang…though I don't think he needs them.


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